


number on the wall

by seekingferret



Category: 867-5309 / Jenny - Tommy Tutone (Song)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingferret/pseuds/seekingferret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny don't change that number, he says, bafflingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	number on the wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katherine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine/gifts).



She considers taking the back way around, slipping down the alley off Martin Street instead of dodging the crowds on Grand Unity Avenue. She's due at work in fifteen minutes, and if her number isn't up on the wall, she'll be late for sure. If her number is up on the wall, it won't matter one way or the other.

She can go back later to check, or more likely than not, she won't have to. Her day at the office will be interrupted by some clever Tommy with a clever stratagem and she'll know it's her time. But that's the coward's way out, and Jenny's mother didn't raise no coward. She pulls the bright red helmet she's been holding by the chinstrap and slaps it onto her head, strapping it closed unconsciously. She jumps onto her skateboard. She kicks off toward Grand Unity Avenue. 

The crowds start to be a problem a block from the wall. There are hundreds of people filing in the same direction- thankfully nobody has the poor sense to try to move against the crowd. She kicks her skateboard up into a waiting hand and joins the queue. She's definitely going to be late to work now. Oh well, she thinks. Jefferson Accounting can account without her. 

The line is quiet, somber, for the most part, except for the Tommies with their ruby red goggles and their M16s. They move in the line the same as everyone else, but you can tell they think they're different somehow. They act as if their numbers couldn't possibly be on the wall, and maybe they're just lying to themselves, or maybe they know something the rest of the line doesn't know. 

The line moves. Its efficiency seems subject to hidden rules: invisible guides or else just social engineering done right. Perhaps the avenues are the right width to keep people from getting stuck, perhaps the curbs are low enough to keep people from stumbling, perhaps the turns are perfectly calibrated to keep people moving. Or perhaps everyone is just too stone cold terrified to do anything but keep moving forward.

The line moves again and again and soon she is at the scanner. She waves her arm in front of it, the left one, the one with the tattoo. A red laser beam sweeps across her arm. In a millisecond, it is over. In a millisecond more, her tattoo is on display on a massive screen above the scanner. 

8675309

The serial number she's borne on her arm since she was twelve. No, not a serial number, not a tattoo. A ticking time bomb that has finally stopped ticking. Everyone on the line can see the number. Too, they can see her face on the flashing datapads that they are all pulling from their pockets. The chase is on. Jenny slams her skateboard onto the ground, jumps on to it, and starts careening away from the scanner. She can't see what's behind her, doesn't dare to look, but she knows exactly what the scene looks like. She knows the relief of everyone in the crowd, the unspeakable sensation of knowing that someone else's umber has been called. She knows that everyone is filing away from her, just as calmly and steadily as they moved toward the scanner to begin with, making sure to stay as far away from the shooters as possible. 

Collateral damage is just another name for a fool too stupid to get out of the way. Jenny's mother had taught her that, too. 

The Tommies are the only ones not fleeing Grand Unity Plaza, not fleeing as far away from the scanners and the Target. Maybe they're fools, too stupid to get out of the way. Or maybe they know something the rest of the line doesn't know. Fifteen thousand credits can buy a lot of food, and a lot of other stuff, too. Risking your life for fifteen thousand credits is a fool's errand, unless you know something the rest of the line doesn't know. 

But by the time the crowd's cleared out enough for the Tommies to catch sight of her, she's no longer in sight. The skateboard was a good move. She knows there's difference of opinion on that score, that people think it's one more thing to keep track of, or that it makes you stand out. Some even think it makes it more likely for your number to be called, and maybe those people know something. She was called, after all. 

Then again, maybe that was her plan. She keeps pumping her right leg, pushed the skateboard further and further away from the plaza. The plaza's a kill zone. If you don't get out fast enough, you're not going to win the game. If you do get out fast enough, you're still probably not going to win the game, but at least you have a shot, if you can define the field of battle. 

At some point she'd considered stashing gear all over the city, an insurance plan in case her number got called. but she'd decided it was a waste of resources. If it made sense to do, everyone would do it, and there just aren't that many good hiding places on the streets. There would be too much risk that you'd commit yourself to a strategy of chasing down one of your boltholes and finding it had already been looted. Then you'd be dead for sure. But she needs equipment, that's for sure. Her twenty four hours are ticking and the Tommmies might be fools, but they're dangerous fools. She can't take them on, just with a skateboard, if they manage to find her, and she can't depend on running away from them forever. 

She pops into an alley, rips a sleeve off her blouse with a pocket knife, and arranges it over her head like a shawl. It'll make her stand out. People will figure it for a runner's disguise, and word will get to the Tommies, but she's got a more pressing problem that the shawl will solve. The scarf will fool the cameras, and the cameras will tell the Tommies much faster than the people will. She hopes it's worth the risk, as she slips out of the alley, skateboad discarded. There is a sporting goods store on this block. If she could get inside, she could stock up, all sorts of useful pieces to aid her survival, but she can't get inside. She doesn't realize it until it's too late, until she's walking up to the front entrance and a strong arm grabs her.

She tries to resist, but he's stronger than her, and he has the advantage of surprise. She should have been expecting him, should have been expecting trouble, but somehow she missed it. 

"Jenny don't change your number," he says, bafflingly, as he pulls her toward his thick chest. His dark glasses mask his eyes, make him a cipher to her. "I've been playing the games as a Tommy for six cycles, never even saw the runner, and this time she just walks right up to me. 8675309's my lucky number."

She tries to figure out how to play him, but she can't get a read off of his face, can't tell what she can say or do to make him release his grip. He slams handcuffs onto her wrists, tightens them until he draws blood. He rips the sheet of cloth off her face and examines her face for a brief, disinterested moment, then he covers her head with a black hood, so she can't see anything.

She thinks of the office, of her job with Jefferson Accounting. We'll account for anything but taste, she thinks, unaccountably, and all of the other terrible accountant jokes. She regrets not laughing at any of them now, and the regret almost makes her laugh, but there is nothing about this situation that is funny. In the name of Grand Unity, she had a number tattooed on her arm. All that training for nought but this moment. And now she stands with cuffs on, number called, all for Grand Unity. 

"Make it quick," she says. It's all she can think to say. And she is fortunate, in a way, that he complies.


End file.
